


Iceman

by OssaCordis



Series: The Holmes Family Chronicle [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Backstory, Childhood, College, Dysfunctional Family, Espionage, Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Origin Story, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 00:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12828975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OssaCordis/pseuds/OssaCordis
Summary: Spring 1990: Mycroft doesn’t so much interview for a job as he trips and falls into an unusual (and dangerous) opportunity. Meanwhile, a teenaged Sherlock disappears.(Will make more sense if the other stories in the series are read first.)





	Iceman

“Home's where you go when you run out of homes.”  
_\- John Le Carré -_

**Spring 1990**

At the age of twenty, Mycroft Holmes has already spent a lifetime building connections with the right sort of people. The world is a vast network, and the man who comes out on top is inevitably the man with the farthest reach and the broadest base. He derives a good deal of satisfaction from knowing everyone who matters, and being known in return.

Thus it is mildly disturbing when on a quiet Saturday afternoon, with only a battered copy of Hobbes for company, a voice calls out to him across Christ Church Meadow.

“Mycroft Holmes!”

Mycroft deliberately finishes the sentence he is on, shuts the book, and eyes the strange man walking towards him.

He is in late middle-age, balding, robust, and somewhat tweedy. Unmarried, but there is a plain gold band on his left ring finger. Wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that make him look like a liberal arts professor, although he is not. In fact, profession – _undecipherable_. Well, that _is_ interesting.

“I haven’t seen you since you were perhaps five years old!” the man exclaims. “You wouldn’t remember me.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft says by way of greeting. He began using the Method of Loci several years ago. Though inexpressibly helpful, he has obliterated some of his earliest memories in the interest of organizing his mind. Not that it matters much. The title of the first book he read, lost to time, would not do him much good now. In this case, he doubts he would have remembered the man anyway.

“I was a friend of your father’s, years ago. It’s how I recognized you. You look so much like him at that age.”

It’s not an outright lie, Mycroft notes. He nods, feigning comprehension and belief. “Yes, so I’ve been told by many people.”

The man thrusts a congenial hand forward. “Anthony Mason-Shaw.” False name. The man’s tongue trips over the double-barrelled last name, putting on pretentions that are not his. And there are no Mason-Shaws of note in any circle: political, philosophical, scientific, or otherwise. Mycroft pretends not to notice.

“This is really wonderful,” the man continues. “Are you a student here?”

“Christ Church?” Mycroft asks. “No, I’m at Balliol. My father’s college.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I should have known.” The man nods, putting on a very good act, as if this is all new information to him when it is clearly not. “Wonderful. Balliol. Well, Mycroft, I would feel remiss if I didn’t invite you over for tea, at least. University student like yourself, wouldn’t want to pass up a free meal, eh?”

Mycroft pointedly frowns at the offer, but finds himself nodding anyways. He’s intrigued by this man, with his half-truths and obscurities. He can logically deduce where this is going, but won’t know for certain unless he follows up his hunch. As much as he hates _legwork_ , he finds himself saying, “Certainly.”

The man hands him an expensive but tasteful name card. “My address is on the back. Would tomorrow night suit you? Six?”

“Yes, of course.”

* * *

 

Anthony Mason-Shaw, who is not in fact Anthony Mason-Shaw, lives in a tidy Georgian row house, about fifteen minutes walking distance from Balliol.

Mycroft manages to be precisely on time, not a single minute too early or too late. Mason-Shaw is waiting for him with a bachelor’s spread of appetizers and a ready pot of tea. A pleasant hour is whiled away at chess and small talk, waiting for the roasted chicken entrée to finish in the oven. After dinner, they retire with wineglasses to Mason-Shaw’s living room, which is lined in bookshelves and reminds Mycroft painfully of the Holmes’ family library in Sussex.

He sips at the wine – a heavy, cloying Dornfelder from Germany – and tries not to be too conspicuous as he reads the titles off of the books on the walls.

“Do you enjoy reading?” Mason-Shaw asks.

Mycroft nods. “Yes. I was just thinking how much this room reminds me of the library at home – at my mother’s home – in Sussex.”

“But that’s not a good memory for you, is it?” Mason-Shaw asks carefully.

It feels like a trick question, but the wine already in his system compels him towards honesty and sentiment. “The books were always kind to me. My parents… my parents are not – _were_ not – good people.”

Mason-Shaw wryly turns up one corner of his mouth. “Surely, you of all people know better than that. It’s never as simple as _good_ or _bad_. People are infinitely more complicated.”

Mycroft gazes into his glass, lips firmly pursed against an outburst.

“I told you that I knew your father, years ago. And I did. But I knew your mother as well, even before then. Not _well_ , I suppose. But I was aware of her in her early years at Oxford, when we were both students. You couldn’t be _unaware_ of her, really. She was stunning; long and tall and slender. Gorgeous lips. Unusual eyes. There was something very Gallic about her.”

“My grandmother is French,” Mycroft interjects.

“Yes, I learned that later. Anyway, your mother wasn’t just pretty to look at. She was one of the brightest minds Oxford had seen in decades. And there were many bright minds with which to compare. She had a gift, my boy; she was going places. There wasn’t a single biochemist at this university that wouldn’t have fallen at her feet and begged to have her work in his laboratory.”

“I ruined it for her, then. When she became pregnant with me.”

“No. Again, it’s not that simple. She was reckless. Out of control, you might say these days. I’ve never seen such a woman for drinking. And then there were the mood swings, and the temper tantrums, and the various scandals and affairs that she initiated everywhere she went. She was the prime topic of gossip in our era at Oxford. There wasn’t an administrator in this university who hadn’t had a quarrel with her at least once.” Mason-Shaw pauses in contemplation, tapping the rim of his glass. “I don’t think she was interested in marriage. But, it was the 1960s. All very well for some folk to preach free love and peace and civil rights and so on, another thing _entirely_ to practice it. So, when she became pregnant, she did what any woman of the time would have done. She married. And she had you. And she loved her husband well enough to have another child by him.”

It is Mycroft’s turn to smile sardonically. “It’s not quite that simple, as you would say. My brother’s paternity has always been in dispute, although no one dares to say it, and no one would ever test it.”

“No?” Mason-Shaw asks. “Well, perhaps I am impinging too far on your family history. This is just my general impression of events. Though, sometimes outsiders _do_ have more insight than those so intimately involved.”

“Mmm… perhaps,” Mycroft grudgingly admits. He takes a sip of the wine, and lets it trickle down the back of his throat. “My grandmother lives with her now, in London. She’s closed up the house in Sussex for the time being. And she’s trying to give up drinking, last I heard.”

“That’s very encouraging,” Mason-Shaw says, nodding as if in encouragement.

“What about my father? You knew him, too.”

“In almost a purely professional capacity,” the older man says, his face brightening a bit as he settles further into his armchair. “He was one of the best men I knew in his field.”

“You were a diplomat, too? You don’t have the bearing of one. I hadn’t guessed it.”

“No, not quite. I moved in diplomatic circles, you might say, but I was never an envoy or attaché or anything of that sort.”

“You’re skirting the topic,” Mycroft accuses.

“I’m… semi-retired. More or less. It’s my business not to talk about my former business.”

Mycroft leans forward in his chair and surveys the man a little closer. Still in excellent shape, few signs of middle-age creeping up on him except for his balding pate and a series of fine wrinkles lining his face and hands. There is something rather bland and inoffensive about him, at least on the surface. But beneath is a kind of unmistakably sharp wit and intelligence. This is a man, Mycroft realizes, who has made a life of seeming to not be much of anything at all. “MI6,” he ventures, each syllable deliberate and cautious.

“If you like. There _are_ other names.”

“It would explain how you moved in diplomatic circles without being a diplomat yourself.”

“The perfect cover,” Mason-Shaw acquiesces. “Your father knew what I was, of course. There were others like me, as well. He signed off on any number of ‘missions’, if you would like to call it that. Benefited from our undertakings on many occasions, and smoothed over the trouble spots when we failed. Kept the Prime Minister abreast of our findings, and the like.”

“He was very devoted to his work.” Mycroft cannot keep either the bitterness or the pride out of his voice.

“Singularly so. He had a wonderful mind, too. Knew what you were going to say before _you_ did.”

“Deduction. That’s what he called it. It’s a logical reasoning process, drawing conclusions from the facts before you. He taught it to me from a very young age, and I taught it to my brother.”

Mason-Shaw laughs. “Yes, he explained it to me once. I was too old and entrenched in my ways for it to be useful to me. But it fascinated me.”

“He used to take me to his club in London, when we were in town. He didn’t after Sherlock was born. He became distant… or, maybe I just noticed it then.”

“He was devoted to his work,” Mason-Shaw accedes.  “You said so yourself.”

“It’s a poor excuse,” Mycroft murmurs. He swirls his glass and watches the fire burning in the grate with claustrophobic intensity. “But you didn’t bring me here to dissect my family history.”

Mason-Shaw laughs again, a gruff chortle that sounds as if it emanates from his intercostal spaces. “No, I should leave that to my betters and superiors. I think you can guess – deduce, if you like – the real reason for your presence tonight.”

“I had an idea after speaking to you for less than a minute.”

“Ah, you Holmeses,” Mason-Shaw says, shaking his head.

“A job offer.”

“Of sorts.”

“A proposal, then.”

“A trial period. You are graduating in a few months, are you not?”

Mycroft nods in accord.

“Some of my old contacts watch for promising students, at Oxford and Cambridge, and other universities besides. You have shown in your academic career and personal life that you have both the aptitude and the appropriate background, if there is such a thing, for a position within Her Majesty’s government. If that is agreeable to you, and if you succeed at the task we set before you, naturally.”

For his entire life, Mycroft has carefully weighed his decisions: charting vast lists of pros and cons, following trails of logic in his mind to rational ends, exploring all possible options and outcomes, and even grudgingly bowing to sentiment when it came to what his little brother wanted most. But now, in this moment, he doesn’t need ten seconds to make up his mind. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Mason-Shaw sets his wineglass down and leans forward in his chair to offer Mycroft a firm handshake. “Well, my boy. Well, well, well. They’ll be in touch.”

“When?” Mycroft asks, dazed by his own alacrity.

“Be ready, Mycroft.” Mason-Shaw leans back in his chair again. “Be ready.”

* * *

 

When Mycroft walks past Mason-Shaw’s house three days later, it is empty and there is a ‘For Sale’ sign in the window.

He spends a week trying to shake off the feeling of being followed, but it is futile because he _is_ being followed. And it is ridiculous to even be bothered by it in the first place. He has been followed for a long time, if it has come to this.

On Wednesday, when he returns to his accommodations after a late breakfast, his housemate Gerald is lounging on the sofa with feet up – shoes _on_ – and flipping through a tattered copy of Virgil. Gerald is an unpleasant necessity, a share in the rent if nothing else. Somewhere down the line, a Holmes or two had had a hand in his ancestry, though a century of inbreeding had apparently seen fit to obliterate any remaining Holmesian traits. Actually one of his more favourable characteristics, Mycroft reflects.

“Shoes,” he intones, no longer bothered by social niceties like greetings or eye contact with Gerald.

Gerald twists just enough to let his feet slide to the floor, and carries on reading. “Someone called while you were out.”

Mycroft pauses from sorting through the mail, and asks in a would-be-casual manner, “Oh?”

“Mmm. Here, listen to this: _Mens immota manet, lacri_ – ”

“ _Who_ called?”

“Some bird. Like them old, do you? She sounded _ancient_.”

“Gerald.”

“Alright, Mycroft? Geez, you are _humourless_. She left her number; I wrote it down and stuck it to the refrigerator for you. Said for you to call her back as soon as possible.”

Mycroft throws the mail down and tries to swallow the rising anticipation in his throat. Sure enough, under a kitsch magnet Gerald brought back from Ibiza last Christmas, there is a scrap of notepaper with a black scrawl of numbers. Mycroft tilts his head to read it, and presses his right thumb and middle finger to his temples. His heart hammers erratically, and he retreats to a chair next to the kitchen telephone.

“Gerald, could you make yourself scarce for a couple of minutes?”

Gerald gracelessly drags himself to his feet and slouches off to his bedroom, where he shuts the door with a little more force than strictly necessary.

The phone is leaden is his hands as he punches in the number and listens to the dial tone. There is a brief moment of shuffling and clattering on the other end, and then an older woman’s voice in his ear.

“Harrow School, Headmaster’s Office.”

“Hello?” Mycroft says, slightly surprised. “This is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes, please hold for one moment,” the woman says. “I will transfer you to the Headmaster.”

There is another click, and then the sound of a man’s voice. “Hello? Mr. Holmes?”

“Yes, speaking.”

“I’m afraid I have some rather bad news, Mr. Holmes.”

Mycroft’s heart jumps a little in his chest. He cannot begin to imagine what Sherlock has done.

“Your son, Sherlock –”

“Brother,” Mycroft interrupts.

“Pardon me?”

“My brother. Sherlock is my younger brother.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” the Headmaster says. “I thought this was the number for your father.”

“My father is deceased, and my mother is… incapacitated. I oversee Sherlock’s education now.”

“Oh. Indeed,” the man says, completely at a loss. “Well, then. Your brother, Sherlock. I’m afraid he’s missing. He didn’t turn up to breakfast this morning, and hasn’t been seen since yesterday evening.”

Mycroft tightly clenches the phone, his fingernails curling around the handle and digging into his palm. “Are you certain? Have you checked _everywhere_? Under the beds, in the kitchen and the closets. The library. The laboratories. The entire school grounds.”

“Yes, of course,” the Headmaster says. “We’ve contacted the police, too. There is video footage of him boarding a train at Euston Station late last night, but they don’t know where he disembarked. It was before the end of the line, though.”

“ _Euston_? That’s, what, eleven or twelve miles from Harrow!”

“Indeed. Police are making inquiries among cabbies and bus drivers.”

“Did something happen yesterday? A fight, or…” Mycroft lets his words drop off as he wraps the phone cord tightly around his index finger and watches the tip turn a blue flush.

“No. We’ve questioned all the boys, and the staff. Nothing. But we’ll find him, Mr. Holmes. He’s not the first boy to run off, and the police are already involved.”

“I want to come down, to Harrow. I’d like to take a look, myself,” Mycroft says.

The Headmaster sighs. “That’s really not necessary, Mr. Holmes.”

“I think it is,” Mycroft coolly replies. “I’ll be there this afternoon, as soon as I catch a train from Oxford.” He rings off without another word, sharply setting the phone back into its cradle.

He retrieves his coat but doesn’t bother telling Gerald that he is on his way out again. Vapid pop music quietly emanates from within his room. _“I could hardly believe it/When I heard the news today/I had to come and get it straight from you/They said you were leavin'…”_

Vague ideas of going to the police and talking them into giving him a copy of the Euston Station video begin to coalesce in his mind as he steps out the front door of his flat, but they are rudely interrupted by the appearance of a large black car with tinted windows.

Not _now_ , Mycroft thinks, all of his earlier anticipation draining away into pools of irritation and preoccupation.

“Mr. Holmes?” a man asks, stepping out onto the pavement and holding the door open. “You’re wanted now.”

It’s a terrible moment. Mycroft frantically marshals his thoughts into order.

Stay here. Go to the police. Find Sherlock. Lose Sherlock again. Find Sherlock. Lose Sherlock. A vicious cycle. A lifetime of not knowing if his little brother is safe or not.

Or, go with the man. Play whatever game has been prepared. Join the government. Be promoted. Gain control. Use control. Watch Sherlock. Prevent Sherlock from disappearing ever again.

Mycroft grits his teeth and ducks his head to avoid hitting it as he gets into the car.

* * *

 

“Ryan Keane. Kevin O’Doyle. Thomas Mahon. Seamus Whalen.”

A man in a crisp grey suit punctuates each name by sliding a headshot across the table towards Mycroft. Each photograph – blown up ten times its original size – is of a man in his mid-twenties to thirties, an identical, grim smile across every face.

“These were taken at the same time,” Mycroft observes. “The light is the same, and even if I didn’t notice that, whoever cropped these photos was sloppy. Here’s part of Mahon’s shirt in the photo of Keane… and, who was wearing the black and gold rugby shirt? I don’t see a picture of that man…”

“Oh, that’s not important,” the man dismisses. “Some fourteen or fifteen year old kid. Likes hanging out with this lot, fancies himself quite the big man, I’m sure…”

Mycroft taps his finger against the photo with the largest slice of shirt peering out of the corner. “All the same, I’d like to see him, too. Please.” The inflection of his voice indicates that it is not a polite request.

“If you’d like,” the man says with a shrug. “It’s your neck on the line.” He ducks out of the windowless room, leaving the door open. All Mycroft can see is a dim and lengthy corridor, featureless except for a tidy row of wainscoting that reaches to hip height. He sits and counts the minutes until he can hear footsteps approaching again.

“Here you are,” the man says, handing him the last photograph in the set. Mycroft surveys it, and then arranges the photos like a puzzle on the polished table before him. “His name is believed to be James Moriarty. But we’re not exactly keeping files on children _just_ yet.”

“Perhaps you should,” Mycroft hums just over the level of his breath. The newest picture is indeed of a teenager – more boy than man, really. He has a peaky, rattish face and a smug expression. There is something about him that reminds Mycroft very much of his missing younger brother. Perhaps it is their mutual affinity for trouble, Mycroft considers, surveying the company this boy keeps: four known IRA associates. “I would like more information on him.”

The man in the suit barely refrains from rolling his eyes, but he exits to scout out more information, leaving Mycroft to contemplate siblings and adversaries from the comfort of a worn leather chair in an anonymous building in Southwark.

* * *

 

“James Moriarty is fourteen years old. He is an Irish national, born in Dublin. Mother was an Irish national as well, and Father is a former member of the British Army. He spent large portions of his early childhood with his mum, following his father from posting to posting when possible. She died in an automobile accident when he was seven, and he was sent to live with family in Ireland. Last year, his father retired from the Army and took young James here back to live in Berkshire. Apparently it didn’t agree with either of them, because he’s currently in Ireland living with an auntie in Dundalk.”

“Did he go to school in Berkshire?” Mycroft asks.

“Mmm, the local secondary school, briefly. Mediocre member of the swim team, excellent at maths. Few friends. Would you like us to get his former teachers on the line as well?” the man in the suit sneers.

“No, that’s quite enough,” Mycroft says mildly. “But I do think you’ve underestimated this boy.”

He struggles to shift some old information in his mind. Wasn’t there something about a drowning in Berkshire last year… no… a boy from Berkshire drowning… something Sherlock had made a huge fuss over? There had been more important things to contend with, and he had ultimately decided to ignore that crisis in favour of whatever was troubling Mummy at that time… also forgotten, unfortunately. Or, rather, relegated to some mental niche not likely to be opened again. After grappling with these vague ideas for another moment or so, he makes a note to have another look later, and continues with the problem at hand.

“Semtex,” he says, abruptly changing his approach.

“Thousands of kilos,” the man in the suit agrees, all traces of sarcasm draining from his voice. “It’s classic IRA; they’ve used it before. But our sources have never before reported it in such colossal quantities in such a short period of time.”

“And you trust your sources?”

“Implicitly.”

“And you trust me to unravel this?”

“Somewhat less implicitly.”

Mycroft gives a humourless grin. “Well. Regardless. And you don’t know where these explosives are coming from?”

“There’s a hole in the fence somewhere… and all the little rabbits have come scampering through. These men – the Dundalk Group, we’ve been calling them – are believed to have kicked that hole into existence. And then expertly camouflaged it. If you’ll forgive the preposterous metaphor.”

Mycroft nods in acknowledgement, but he’s looking at the photographs again and deducing more information. Whalen has children at home – at least three, more likely four. He’s passionate about the IRA, but not enough to seriously endanger his family by embracing a leadership role. Keane barely finished primary school, and probably doesn’t have the strategic abilities to instigate a scheme like this. Mahon is both deeply religious and violent; he bare-knuckle boxes on weeknights for extra cash, and attends confession every weekend. Between those two devotions and the long hours he works in a factory, it would be astonishing if he found the time to build the necessary network to implement such a plan.

That leaves O’Doyle. He haughtily stares out of his photograph: eyes forward, brow furrowed, mouth grimacing in an ersatz smile. Native of Belfast. Impoverished, lonely childhood. Degree in… civil engineering? Paid for by hard labour and academic scholarships. A brilliant student, and a charismatic one: well-liked by professors and peers alike. He’s a born leader and a likely candidate for architect of this plot. But something about him does not strike Mycroft as quite right. O’Doyle is a bold man; it is written all over his posture and mien. His life revolves around ruthlessness and progress, sparing no one in his path. He would not shy away from sharing his convictions if questioned, and he lacks a personal life that would drive another man to caution. This is not a man who could keep a secret. At least not for long. And there are few secrets bigger than a massive hole in the security net woven around Great Britain and Ireland to ensnare terrorists such as these.

Mycroft’s eyes drift to young James Moriarty again. His skin prickles. If Sherlock can flee Harrow and disappear from the police, then surely another fourteen year old can concoct schemes and cover his own tracks as well. But what proof does he have? An indistinct sensation of discomfort, and a weakly drawn metaphor with deep roots in his personal insecurities.

He wants to accomplish something momentous in the time he has been granted to solve this predicament; most of all, he wants a post with the British government, and the kind of security that can be purchased with power. He cannot afford to be laughed out onto the streets by laying the blame for this crisis on the shoulders of a troubled teenage boy with a few unsavoury connections.

“O’Doyle,” he says at last, not quite managing to believe himself. “Don’t waste your time with the others. He knows something, and he will talk if you can find him.” It’s not, strictly speaking, a lie; O’Doyle _does_ know something, but probably not everything. But it’s a start.

* * *

 

The private aeroplane has just rolled up to the gate. Destination: Londonderry. Mycroft coils the telephone cord around one hand as he watches the ground staff check the engines.

“Well, I have not told Violette. I would not want to upset her, not when she is doing so well.” Grand-mère sounds tired, but not entirely un-optimistic.

“So you said,” Mycroft says grimly. “He could be anywhere by now. He’s had almost two days head start.”

“And you have no idea where he could have gone?”

“I can’t… I don’t even know where to begin,” Mycroft confesses. His first instinct, if he were to run away, would be to go someplace that made him happy. But when and where has Sherlock ever been happy? It’s a disheartening thought. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

“I will think on this, too, Mycroft. We will find him.”

They chat for another minute about Mummy’s latest effort at sobriety, but when they run out of common family members to discuss, Mycroft rings off. He and Grand-mère will never be close, he knows, but they have an agreeable enough working relationship.

* * *

 

In person, Kevin O’Doyle is vast hulk of a man. Even handcuffed to his chair, Mycroft can tell he’s not an inch shorter than six and a half feet, and his shoulders are broad and square. As well, he has a good decade or more in years over Mycroft.

“Sure, and this is all legal, then, is it?” he snaps, his teeth clicking on the last words like a piranha.

Mycroft steadfastly looks the man in the eyes, ignoring the more professional interrogator hovering in the background and waiting to swoop in when ( _if_ , Mycroft corrects himself) the situation spirals out of control. “You are in the United Kingdom now, Mr O’Doyle. You are subject to our laws.”

“Derry belongs to the _Republic_ of Ireland,” O’Doyle growls. “I refuse to acknowledge English law. And, Jaysus, you lot must be desperate. Are you even out of nappies? Sending a fat babe to do a man’s job…”

It’s the first time Mycroft has felt young in years. He wants to lash out, or to stand and walk from the room with as much dignity as he can muster, to return to Oxford, to search for Sherlock. Instead, he stifles a sigh and absent-mindedly pulls at his wristwatch to stop it from digging into his wrist. “This is going to be very tedious for me, Mr O’Doyle, if you refuse to cooperate.”

“And me?” O’Doyle asks, suspicious but still proud.

Mycroft allows a small, toothy grin as he surveys the older man. “I imagine it will be less comfortable for you.” 

“Feck off. You’re just trying to intimidate me, you are. I _know_ that’s not legal.”

“Oh?” Mycroft lazily murmurs. “Do you know what else is illegal? Smuggling three tonnes of Semtex into Dundalk and then ferrying it into Holyhead. Would you care for some tea?”

“What?” For a moment, O’Doyle is flustered.

“Tea, please,” Mycroft says to the interrogator lingering in the background. The man looks as if he wants to protest, but is also conflicted because he wants to present a united front to Kevin O’Doyle. With a discomforted but affirmative splutter, he stumbles from the room, almost certain to be lost in the concrete warren of rooms for at least fifteen minutes.

“Look,” Mycroft says, lowering his voice and leaning towards O’Doyle. “I _know_ you didn’t mastermind the Semtex smuggling ring. But I need you to tell me how to stop it.”

O’Doyle’s face is an ugly shade of red as he strains against his handcuffs. “You fat little feck,” he spits. “How do you know I didn’t organize that ring? I’m clever, too.”

“I know you are,” Mycroft says urgently. “I know all about you, Kevin O’Doyle. I know you grew up dirt poor in Belfast, and paid for your textbooks in University by working the night shift as a welder in a factory. And I know your girlfriend doesn’t love you, and you have a cache of pistols under your kitchen floorboards and hand grenades in your garden shed.”

O’Doyle’s face abruptly drains of all blood, and he relaxes against the metal cuffs at his wrists. “Shit.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft concurs. “The days of armed Irish militia are drawing to a close. Maybe not _this_ week or month, but in ten or fifteen years, this will be at an end. If you don’t tell me how to stop this ring, and stop it _now_ , I will make sure you spend the rest of your days _alone_ and _miserable_ and maybe, just maybe, _in pain_.”

“You’re a cold bastard, so you are,” O’Doyle softly grumbles. “So what are _you_ fighting for?”

Mycroft clenches his teeth and sets his lips in an unyielding line.

O’Doyle slowly nods his head. “This is personal, it is, for you. What… _who_ is on the line…?”

“Do not try me,” Mycroft warns.

“This is _family_.” If possible, O’Doyle’s voice drops a couple more decibels. “What does this have to do with your family…?”

“I can make your days an unending symphony of suffering.”

O’Doyle laughs, the sound harsh and strange and loud as it echoes in the concrete interrogation chamber. “You sound like him. Our _mastermind_. A scary little fecker, just like you. They start ‘em young these days.”

“Moriarty,” Mycroft exhales.

“You won’t find a smudge of dirt on him,” O’Doyle warns. “He is pure as a virgin’s kiss. It’s all up here.” He taps his temple. “All in the mind. Nothing _tangible_ can be connected to him. He’s a bit clever like that.”

“We’ll see about that,” Mycroft says, suddenly aware of the time. The interrogator could be back any minute now.

“If I tell you about the Semtex – tell you how to stop it – you need to put me in the furthest prison, behind the most secure door. That mad little fecker… he’ll come after me. If I tell you anything, he will _annihilate_ me.”

“He’s a fourteen year old boy.”

“He’s mad. Completely mad.” O’Doyle lets this sink in for a moment or two.

“We’ll protect you,” Mycroft says, though he’s not sure he can promise this. When mad ideas enter into the minds of fourteen year old boys… everything else is collateral damage. “Tell me about the Semtex, O’Doyle.”

“Sure, the Semtex. The Castletown River empties into the sea at Dundalk, but it originates inland, from several streams in Ireland and Northern Ireland alike…”

* * *

 

Near the waterfront in Dundalk, made inconspicuous by overgrown hedges, is a shed. It is wedged between two deserted houses, and set back far enough from the road that the response team almost misses it on their first sweep of the street. Mycroft’s sharp eyes do not miss it, however, peering curiously out from under his borrowed Garda helmet. He doesn’t have to be there; other British agents could have fulfilled the role of liaison with the Irish police. As time drags on, he begins to wish that he _had_ accepted the first flight offered back to England, since he is not exactly suited to this sort of thing. He _is_ needed in London, after all; but what real use would he be in finding his brother? Almost eighty hours. Three days. It’s quite a feat for a fourteen year old boy to disappear for so long.

No, Mycroft decides, it’s better to see this case to its absolute end before pursuing that case. His stomach churns, and he tries not to imagine what Sherlock could have done – or what could have happened – to render the boy so impossible to track.

When a sufficient area around the shed has been evacuated, the police kick down the door. Late afternoon light streams through the door, illuminating a tall stack of wooden crates, a gun rack, and sundry other militia goods. One Garda officer cracks into the crates with a crowbar, and swears under his breath. He gestures for his fellow officers to look, and then waves at Mycroft and the interrogator as an afterthought. Inside, nestled in wood shavings, sits a heavy stack of red-brown Semtex bricks wrapped in plastic sheeting.

* * *

 

Mason-Shaw who is not Mason-Shaw slides a paper and pen across his desk. “Well done, my boy.”

Mycroft smooths the paper with his hand, skimming a few lines. A standard sort of contract. Unusual only in that it does not bind him to any one particular agency. Decent starting salary, benefits. Chance of advancement.

It feels good to have something of his own to go to when he finishes his degree at the end of Trinity term. The moment is only tainted by the carefully concealed knowledge that he has not told the whole truth to his new handlers. The spectre of young James Moriarty lingers at the back of his mind, along with troubled thoughts about Sherlock. Still missing, for almost five days now. The only reason his disappearance hasn’t been splashed across every news programme and tabloid in the UK is that Mycroft has quietly asked the police not to alert the media. If only for Mummy’s sake. And because he doubts that a news frenzy and a nationwide search could uncover Sherlock’s hiding spot, if the boy didn’t really want to be found.

His signature is tall, tight loops of black ink across stiff paper.

“Welcome,” Mason-Shaw says, beaming.

“Thank you,” Mycroft replies.

* * *

 

Mummy looks good. Hair neatly coiffed, dress properly pressed, eyes clear and bright and cheerful. London has been good for her. Or, rather, Grand-mère has been good to her.

She pours tea out for Mycroft and stirs in sugar and milk. “I’m so pleased for you, darling. It’s good to have a place in this world.” Her voice is a little wistful, no doubt remembering her own place – and career aspirations – as a young woman at Oxford. “You’ll begin right after you finish, then? No time for a holiday in the sun? I was thinking of the South of France again…”

The South of France has always been a dangerous place for Mummy. Mycroft shakes his head. “They want me to start as soon as I possibly can. They’ve already allotted me an office. Though of course I won’t have the clearance to even see it until Trinity term ends.”

Mummy nods. “Yes. Of course.”

They sit in silence for a while, drinking their tea and watching the other afternoon tea goers at the Ritz. Mummy clears her throat quietly.

“Dearest, before you go back up to Oxford, could you make a little detour and check on Sherlock?”

Mycroft gapes. “Sherlock?” Mummy stares back at him, brow furrowed. “Sherlock, at Harrow.”

“Yes, your brother. Sherlock,” Mummy says in confusion. “But he’s not at Harrow, darling. He took a few days off. Came by earlier this week and got a key for the house in Sussex from me. I know it’s really, very out of your way, but I hate to think of him all alone down there and wanted someone to look in on him. And your grandmother surely won’t let me go down on my own, silly old thing.”

“He’s in Sussex,” Mycroft repeats in a daze.

“Yes, dear,” Mummy says impatiently.

“Sussex.”

Mummy is staring at him very strangely now.

“Fucking goddamn hell.”

“Language, ‘Croft! This is the Ritz, after all…”

* * *

 

The house is quiet and dark. All the furniture has been covered in white sheets, and the curtains are drawn. Except for the sole housekeeper who was kept on, the other servants were dismissed or retired years ago. The barn is empty, and the garden bare except for scant weeds and a few persistent bulbs. Sherlock is not inside, but Mycroft immediately suspects his location.

Sherlock is dirty and his nose is running and his hair is wild. There is an ash tray full of cigarette butts sitting next to him on the ground, and another burning down to nothing in his hand. Mycroft settles next to him on the little outcropping that overlooks the old yew tree and patiently waits for Sherlock to speak first. It takes almost a full ten minutes.

“Fuck. Off.”

“Hello, Sherlock.”

“Mummy sent you after me, didn’t she?”

“Is that a guess?”

“I never guess.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.” Mycroft smooths a slight crease in his trousers. He can see Sherlock frowning out of the corner of his eye. “Give me a cigarette.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“You don’t know everything, little brother. Mummy says hello.”

Sherlock sneers.

“She’s been doing really well lately. Did you notice, when you went to get the key?”

“You say that like it’s my fault,” Sherlock snaps.

Mycroft turns to look at Sherlock, examining his thin, pale face and matching the intensity of his gaze. “What, that Mummy’s getting better?”

“Don’t be asinine.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth tweaks upwards in the faintest half-smile conceivable, but he knows Sherlock doesn’t miss it. “Sherlock, Mummy drank long before Father left. Before you were born. Even before I was born, I’ve learned. You just don’t remember what that was like, when you were small. She was always good to you, even when she was harsh with me. She has always loved you.”

Sherlock shrugs.

“She gave you the key to the house this week, after all. And didn’t tell any of us where you had run to. You have Harrow in an uproar. The police have looked everywhere for you. Grand-mère is worried sick.”

“Good.”

“You don’t mean that.”

Sherlock hesitates for a moment. “No.”

Mycroft puffs quietly on his cigarette for a moment. “When are you going back to Harrow?”

“You’re not going to make me?”

“I don’t think I can. At least, not yet. Maybe when I’m older… more powerful…”

Sherlock cracks a smile at last. “You’re so full of shit.”

Mycroft smiles back, and nods. Deep in the recesses of his mind, he is already forming plans and contingency plans and contingency plans for the contingency plans. “We’ll see, little brother. We’ll see.”

**Author's Note:**

> After literally years of leaving this series alone, I was combing through some old material I had written and realized that, A) I had several almost complete stories in this series that I never quite finished and B) I really quite liked a lot of what I had written even though it was nowhere near canon-compliant. I remember that a few years ago it bothered me to publish something less-than canon-compliant, but, with some time and perspective I’ve decided to carry on and just do my own thing. Hopefully with good results.


End file.
